The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

As soon as he could collect his scattered senses, he heard a voice exclaim, "What, ho! soul of O'Carrol, approach!"

"So I'm thravelin' without my trunk this time, any way," thought Corney, as he advanced toward the voice.

It continued, "Soul of a mortal, why hast thou sought our presence?"

"May it plaze yer majesty," Corney began to stammer out, "bekase I was a trifle unaisy in me mind."

"What about?"

"In regard of the scarcity of money, plaze your reverence."

"What is your trade?"

"A shoemaker, sir."

"Cobbler, you mean," said the voice, severely. "No lying here; recollect your poor, miserable, naked soul stands before us."

Corney thought of the height he'd have to fall, and trembled.

"You can't get work, I suppose," the voice returned.

"Too much of it, if it plaze yer honor. I niver have a minute to spare."

"For what?"

"Why, yer honor, to – to – "

"Remember the punishment of prevarication. To what?"

"To take a drink."

"Then you have no home?"

"Oh, yes, but I have, sir."

"But 'tis pleasanter to lounge in a tap-room?"

"A trifle, may-be, your honor."

"Perhaps you have no wife to make your home comfortable?"

"Have't I though; the best that ever drew the breath of life," cried Corney, with a loving remembrance of Mary.

"Poor fellow," continued the voice; "your situation is deplorable, it appears. You have a good trade, an excellent wife, a comfortable home, and yet you are discontented."

Corney felt himself resolving into a leaden pellet.

"One question more," said the voice; "when did you first feel dissatisfied?"

"Why, to tell the truth, yer honor, as soon as that fellow, Phil Blake, began to build his big brick house opposite to my little mud cabin. Before that, I was as gay as a lark, but it stood like a great cloud between me and the sun."

"Envy was the cloud, envy, that gloomiest of all earthly passions. Why do you covet this man's fortune?"

"Because, sir, he always looks so smilin', and jinks his money about, an' dispises the poor boys he used to be friendly with."

"Foolish, foolish soul!" said the voice, in accents of commiseration, "but not yet wholly tainted. Thy love of home hath partially redeemed thee. Listen to me. Dost thou see yonder piled up mass of rainbow-tinted clouds. Do they not look gloriously, as the rising sun flings his beams through them, as though revelling in their embrace? Wouldst thou not like to behold such magnificence closer?"

"Nothing in life betther, yer majesty," said Corney.

"Then away; a wish will place you in their midst – a thought return you here."

So with the wish and thought Corney went and came back.

"Well, what didst thou see?" inquired the Fairy King.

"The divil a haperth," replied Corney, "but a mighty black and most unwholesomely damp cloud."

"What should that teach you?"

"Never to thravel without an umbrella, yer honor, I suppose," answered Corney, who to say the truth, was a little obtuse.

"Fool," said the fairy, "since I cannot lesson thee, go to thy kindred earth, and learn experience from realities. Proceed to the chamber of the man whose good fortune thou enviest; then to thine own, and if thou art not satisfied with thy condition, seek me again, and meet with thy reward. Away!"

As if by magic, the brilliant assembly dispersed like clouds of gold-dust floating on the wind, and Corney was left alone.

"That's a mighty high sort o' chap," said Corney, "but I suppose I'd betther do what he towld me for fear'd he'd turn spiteful."

So Corney wished himself within the chamber of Blake, and there he saw the most piteous sight earth can produce: a young mother weeping tears of agony over the body of her first-born. A man stood beside her with features set and hard, as though turned to stone by hopeless grief.

"My God," thought Corney, "and these are the people whose lot I have envied, and my own blue-eyed darling, is he safe? Home, home," cried he, and with the wish was there. In his little cradle lay the beautiful boy steeped in the angel-watched, the holy sleep of infant innocence, while Mary, on her knees, mingled her prayer for her absent husband. Corney was rushing towards her, but suddenly remembering himself: "What a fool I am," thought he, "I forgot I was a sperrit, at all events, I can kiss the babby." With that, he bounded into the cradle, and nestled on the boy's lip. Mary, seeing the child smile in his sleep, exclaimed: "Good angels are putting sweet thoughts into your head, my blessed babe," and she softly kissed him too.

"Oh! murdher," thought Corney, "this will never do; I must go and look afther my body and bring it home. Thanks to the good fairies, I've larned a lesson that shall last my life and my boy's, too, if I have any influence over him."

So saying, Corney wished himself in the meadow where his tangible proportions were extended, and having kicked and got in, shook himself carefully to see if he had obtained absolute possession.

"It's all right," said he, "I've come back." Looking up and around him, he was surprised to see the bright sunlight of morning, and still more so to observe Mary trudging through the churchyard to meet him.

"Oh, well," said Mary, anxiously, when they encountered, "what luck?"

"A power of knowledge, but no money," said Corney, sententiously.

"Did you see the fairies?"

"Did I see them! bedad, I was one myself."

"Oh! be aisy!"

"The divil a doubt of it; wasn't I at home a bit ago, unbeknownt to you? Answer me this, didn't you kiss the babby just before you came out?"

"As thrue as life, I did," said Mary, slightly awe-struck.

"I was there and saw you do it."

"Where were you, Corney?"

"Sittin' on the end of his nose."

Of course that was proof positive, but inasmuch as Mary always did kiss the boy before she left the house, the coincidence becomes less remarkable.

It only remains for me to say, that the circumstance made a very favorable change in Corney's disposition, or rather dissipated the cloud which obscured his real character. Mary found her account in it, by an increase of industry on his part, and he was rewarded by a corresponding anxiety in her, to make his home happy. Many and many a time would he give an account of his aerial journey, religiously convinced of its reality; once only Mary just ventured to insinuate that it might possibly have been a dream, but the I-pity-your-ignorance-look which Corney gave her, made her heartily ashamed of having hazarded so stupid an opinion, and, as a matter of course, she soon believed as implicitly as her husband, the wonderful adventure of The Fairy Circle.

O'BRYAN'S LUCK. A TALE OF NEW YORK

CHAPTER I.

THE MERCHANT-PRINCE

In the private office of a first-class store sat two individuals, each thoroughly absorbed in his present employment, but with very different feelings for the work. One – it was the head of the establishment, the great Mr. Granite, the millionaire merchant – was simply amusing himself, as was his usual custom at least once a day, figuring up, by rough calculation, the probable amount of his worldly possessions, they having arrived at that point when the fructifying power of wealth made hourly addition to the grand total; while the other, his old and confidential clerk, Sterling, bent assiduously over a great ledger, mechanically adding up its long columns, which constant use had enabled him to do without the possibility of mistake. With a profound sigh of relief, he laid down his pen, and rubbing his cramped fingers, quietly remarked:

"Accounts made up, sir."

"Ah, very good, Sterling," replied the stately principal, with a smile, for his arithmetical amusement was very satisfactory, "how do we stand?"

"Balance in our favor, two hundred and fifty-seven thousand eight hundred and forty-seven dollars, and twenty-three cents," slowly responded the old clerk, reading from his abstract.

"You're certain that is correct, Mr. Sterling?" inquired the merchant-prince, in a clear, loud voice, which indicated that the old, time-worn machine was wearing out. He was so deaf that it was only by using his hand as a conductor of the sound, that he could hear sufficiently to carry on a conversation.

"Correct to a cypher, sir," he replied. "I have been up and down the columns a dozen times."

"Good."

"Did you speak, sir?"

"No."

"Ah! my poor old ears," the old clerk whispered, half aside. "Five and forty years in this quiet office has put them to sleep. They'll never wake up again, never, never."

"You have been a careful and useful assistant and friend, Sterling," said the merchant, in a kindly tone, touching him on the shoulder with unaccustomed familiarity, "and I thank you for the great good your services have done the house."

"Bless you, sir, bless you – you are too good. I don't deserve it," replied Sterling, unable to restrain the tears which this unusual display of good feeling, had forced up from the poor old man's heart.

"I shall have no further need of you to-day, Sterling, if you have any business of your own to transact."

"I have, I have, my good, kind friend, and thank you for granting me the opportunity," said Sterling, descending with difficulty from his place of torture. – Why will they not abolish those inflexible horrors, those relics of barbarism, those inquisitorial chattels – office-stools? "I'll go now, and mingle my happiness with the sweet breath of Heaven – and yet, if I dared to say what I want – I" —

"Well, speak out, old friend." The merchant went on, with an encouraging look: "If your salary be insufficient" —

"Oh! no, no!" interposed the other, suddenly, "I am profusely paid – too much, indeed – but" – and he cast down his eyes hesitatingly.

"This reserve with me is foolish, Sterling. What have you to say?"

"Nothing much, sir; indeed, I hardly know how to bring it out, knowing, as I well do, your strange antipathy" – Granite turned abruptly away. He now knew what was coming, and it was with a dark frown upon his brow he paced the office, as Sterling continued:

"I saw him to-day."

"Travers?"

"Yes," replied the other, "Travers. But don't speak his name as though it stung you. I was his father's clerk before I was yours."

"You know what I have already done for him," moodily rejoined the merchant.

"Yes, yes – I know it was kind, very kind of you – you helped him once; but he was unsuccessful. He is young – pray, pray, spare him some assistance. You won't miss it – indeed you won't," pleaded the clerk.

"Sterling, you are a fool," Granite replied, sternly. "Every dollar lent or lost is a backward step that must be crawled up to again by inches. But I am inclined to liberality to-day. What amount do you think will satisfy this spendthrift?"

"Well, since your kindness emboldens me to speak – it's no use patching up a worn coat, so even let him have a new one – give him another chance – a few hundred dollars, more or less, can't injure you, and may be his salvation. About five thousand dollars will suffice."

"Five thousand dollars! are you mad, Sterling?" cried the merchant, starting to his feet in a paroxysm of anger.

"Your son will have his half a million to begin with," quietly suggested Sterling.

"He will, he will!" cried the other, with a strange, proud light in his eye, for upon that son all his earthly hopes, and haply those beyond the earth, were centered. "Wealth is power, and he will have sufficient; he can lift his head amongst the best and proudest; he can wag his tongue amongst the highest in the land – eh, my old friend?"

"That can he, indeed, sir, and be ashamed of neither head nor tongue, for he's a noble youth," replied the clerk.

"Here, take this check, Sterling. I'll do as you wish this time; but mind it is the last. I have no right to injure, even in the remotest degree, my son's interests, of which I am simply the guardian. You can give it to – to —him, and with this positive assurance."

"Bless you – this is like you – this is noble, princely," murmured the old clerk, through his tears, which now were flowing unrestrainedly; "when I tell" —

"Hold! repeat his name again, and I recall the loan. I repent already of having been entrapped into this act of folly."

"You wrong your own liberal nature," said Sterling, mildly. "You are goodness itself, and fear not but you will receive your reward four-fold for all you have done for" —

"Away, you prating fool," cried Granite, in a tone that hurried the old clerk out of the office, full of gratitude for the service done, and of unaffected joy, that Providence had selected him to be the bearer of such happy intelligence to the son of his old employer.

Meantime, the merchant-prince flung himself into his comfortable easy-chair, a spasm of agony passing across his harsh features. "Oh! Travers, Travers!" he inly ejaculated, "must that black thought ever thrust itself like a grim shadow across the golden sun-ray of my prosperity?"

CHAPTER II.

THE MAN OF LABOR

The accommodating reader will now be kind enough to accompany me to a far different place from that in which the foregoing dialogue was held. With an effort of the will – rapid as a spiritual manifestation – we are there. You see, it is an exceedingly small habitation, built entirely of wood, and, excepting that beautiful geranium-plant on one window, and a fine, sleek, contented-looking puss winking lazily on the other – both, let me tell you, convincing evidence that the household deities are worshipped on the hearth within – for wheresoever you see flowers cultivated outside of an humble house, look for cleanliness, and domestic comfort on the inside – excepting those two things, but little of ornament is visible. Kind people dwell within, you may know; for, see, the placid puss don't condescend to change her position as we near her; her experience hasn't taught her to dread an enemy in our species.

"Lift the latch; 'tis but a primitive fastening – nay! don't hesitate; you know we are invisible. There! you are now in the principal apartment. See how neat and tidy everything is. The floor, to be sure, is uncarpeted; but then it is sedulously clean. Look at those white window-curtains; at that well-patched table-cloth, with every fold as crisp as though it had been just pressed; the dresser over there, each article upon it bright as industry and the genius of happy home can make it. – What an appetizing odor steams in from yonder kitchen! and listen to those dear little birds, one in each window, carrying on a quiet, demure conversation, in their own sweet way! Do they not say, and does not every quiet nook echo:

"Though poor and lowly, there is all of Heaven that Heaven vouchsafes to man, beneath this humble roof; for it is the sphere of her who is God's choicest blessing – that world angel – a good, pure-hearted, loving WIFE."

But hark! who is that singing? You can hear him, although he is yet a street off; and so can she who is busy within there, you can tell by that little scream of joy.

That is Tom Bobalink, the honest truckman, and the owner of this little nest of contentment.

But, if you please, I will resume my narrative my own way, for you are a very uncommunicative companion, friend reader, and it is impossible for me to discover whether you like the scene we have been looking at, or do not.

In a few moments, Tom rushed into the little room, his face all a-glow with healthy exercise, and a joyous song at his lips.

"Hello! pet, where are you?" he cried, putting down his hat and whip.

"Here am I, Tom!" answered as cheerful a voice as ever bubbled up from a heart, full of innocence and love.

"Din in a sec," meaning dinner in a second; for "Tom and Pol," in their confidential chats, abbreviated long words occasionally; and I give this explanation as a sort of guide to their pet peculiarity.

"Hurry up, Polly!" cried Tom, with a good-humored laugh, "for I'm jolly hungry, I tell you. Good gracious! I've heard of people's taking all sorts of thing to get up an appetite; if they'd only have the sense to take nothing, and keep on at it, it's wonderful what an effect it would have on a lazy digestion."

Polly now entered with two or three smoking dishes, which it did not take long to place in order. Now, I should dearly like to give you a description of my heroine – aye! heroine – for it is in her station that such are to be found – noble spirits, who battle with privation and untoward fate – smoothing the rugged pathway of life, and infusing fresh energy into the world-exhausted heart. Oh! what a crown of glory do they deserve, who wear a smile of content upon their lips, while the iron hand of adversity is pressing on their hearts, concealing a life of martyrdom beneath the heroism of courageous love.

I say I should like to give you some slight description of Polly's external appearance, but that I choose rather that my readers should take their own individual ideas of perfect loveliness, and clothe her therein; for, inasmuch as she is the type of universal excellence, in mind and character, I wish her to be so in form and beauty.

"What have you got for me, Polly?" says Tom.

"It ain't much," she replied; "cos you know we can't afford lux'es; but it's such a sweet little neck of mut, and lots of wedges."

"Gollopshus!" says Tom; "out with it! I'm as hungry as an unsuccessful office-seeker."

"Office-seekers! what are they, Tom?"

"Why, Polly, they are – faith, I don't know what to compare them to; you've heard of those downy birds, that when some other has got hisself a comfortable nest, never rests until he pops into it. But them's politics, Polly, and ain't prop for wom to meddle with."

"I agree with you there, Tom, dear; there's enough to occupy a woman's time and attention inside of her house, without bothering her heart with what's going on outside."

"Bless your homey little heart!" cried Tom, heartily. "Oh! Polly, darling, if there were a few more good wives, there would be a great many less bad husbands. This is glorious! If we could only be sure that we had as good a dinner as this all our lives, Pol, how happy I should be; but I often think, my girl, that if any accident should befall me, what would become of you."

"Now, don't talk that way, Thomas; nor don't repine at your condition; it might be much worse."

"I can't help it. I try not; but it's impossible, when I see people dressed up and tittevated out, as I go jogging along with my poor old horse and truck – I envy them in my heart, Pol – I know it's wrong; but it's there, and it would be worse to deny it."

"Could any of those fine folks enjoy their dinner better than you did, Tom?" said Polly, with a cheering smile.

"No, my girl!" shouted he, and the joy spread over his face again – "not if they had forty courses. But eating isn't all, Pol," he continued, growing suddenly serious once more. "This living from hand to mouth – earning with hard labor every crust we put into it – never seeing the blessed face of a dollar, that isn't wanted a hundred ways by our necessities – is rather hard."

"Ah! Tom, and thankful ought we to be that we have health to earn that dollar. Think of the thousands of poor souls that are worse off than ourselves! Never look above your own station with envy, Thomas; but below it with gratitude."

It was at this moment that there appeared at the open door, a poor, wretched-looking individual, evidently an Irishman, and, from the singularity of his dress, only just arrived. He said not a word, but upon his pale cheek was visibly printed a very volume of misery.

"Hello! friend, what the devil do you want?" asked Tom.

"Don't speak so, Thomas. He's sick and in distress," said Polly, laying her finger on his mouth. "There! suppose you were like that?"

"What? a Paddy!" replied the other, with a jolly laugh; "don't mention it!" then calling to the poor stranger, who was resignedly walking away; "Come on Irish!" he cried. "Do you want anything?"

"Av you plaze, sir," answered the Irishman, "I'd like to rest meself."

"Sit down, poor fellow!" said Polly, dusting a chair, and handing it towards him.

"I don't mane that, ma'm; a lean o' the wall, an' an air o' the fire'll do. The blessin's on ye for lettin' me have it!" so saying, he placed himself near the cheerful fire-place, and warmed his chilled frame.

"A big lump of a fellow like you, wouldn't it be better for you to be at work than lounging about in idleness?" said Tom.

"Indeed, an' its thrue for ye, sir, it would so; but where is a poor boy to find it?"

"Oh! anywhere – everywhere."

"Bedad, sir, them's exactly the places I've been lookin' for it, for the last three weeks; but there was nobody at home. I hunted the work while I had the stringth to crawl afther it, an' now, av it was to come, I'm afear'd that I haven't the stringth to lay howld ov it."

"Are you hungry?" inquired Polly.

"I'm a trifle that way inclined, ma'm," he replied, with a semi-comic expression.

"Poor fellow, here, sit down and eat," said Polly, hurriedly diving into the savory stew, and forking up a fine chop, which she handed to the hungry stranger.

"I'd relish it betther standin', if you plaze, ma'm," said he, pulling out a jack-knife and attacking the viands with vigorous appetite, exclaiming, "May the Heavens bless you for this good act; sure it's the poor man that's the poor man's friend, afther all. You've saved me, sowl and body this blessed day. I haven't begged yet, but it was comin' on me strong. I looked into the eyes of the quality folks, but they carried their noses so high they couldn't see the starvation that was in my face, and I wouldn't ax the poor people for fear they were worse off than meself."

"Ain't you sorry, Thomas, for what you said just now?" inquired Polly of her husband.

"No," he replied, striking his fist on the table. "I'm more discontented than ever, to think that a few hundred scoundrel schemers, or fortunate fools, should monopolize the rights of millions; isn't it devilish hard that I can't put my hand in my pocket and make this poor fellow's heart jump for joy."

"Point out to him where he can get some employment, Thomas, and his heart will be continually jumping," replied Polly.

By this time the poor stranger had finished his extempore meal, and shut up his pocket-knife, which he first carefully wiped on the tail of his coat. "May God bless you for this," said he. "I'm stronger now. I'll go an' hunt for a job; may-be luck won't be a stepfather to me all my days."

"Stop," cried Tom, "suppose I were to give you something to do, what would you say?"

"Faix, I wouldn't say much, sir," said the Irishman, "but I'd do it."

"Come along with me, then, and if I get any job, I'll get you to help me."

"Oh, then, may long life attend you for puttin' fresh blood in my veins," responded the excited Milesian, giving his already curiously bad hat a deliberate punch in the crown, to show his gratitude and delight.

"Bless his noble, honest, loving heart," cried Polly, as Tom, having impressed his usual kiss upon her lips, started to his labor again. "If it were not for those little fits of discontent every now and then, what a man he'd be; but we can't be all perfect; don't I catch myself thinking silks and satins sometimes, instead of cottons and calicoes? and I'll be bound, if the truth was known, the great folks that wear nothing else but grand things, don't behave a bit better, but keep longing for something a little grander still, so he mustn't be blamed, nor he shan't, neither, in my hearing."

CHAPTER III.

THE BOARDING-HOUSE

Turn we now to the highly-genteel establishment where Henry Travers and his young wife are now domiciliated, presided over by a little more than middle-aged, severe-looking personage, who rejoiced in the euphonious name of Grimgriskin; her temper, phraseology, and general disposition may be better illustrated by the conversation which is now going on between her and her two unfortunate inmates. The mid-day accumulation of scraps, which was dignified by the name of dinner, but just over, Henry Travers, in his small, uncomfortable bed-room, was ruminating upon the darkness of his present destiny, when a sharp knock at his door admonished him that he was about to receive his usual dunning visit from his amiable landlady.